


The Last Rose of Summer

by honestlyrachel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: College, F/M, Fluff, Silly little fic, Young Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-11-08 07:29:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11076876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honestlyrachel/pseuds/honestlyrachel
Summary: When and where did Sherlock learn the skills he displayed in later life? How did he become so good at violin?University!Sherlock x ReaderCOMPLETE





	1. Apple Juice

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Sherlock Holmes and am making no profit from this fic. 

_How does she do it? Play like **that**?_ Sherlock wondered to himself. 

No, you weren't just playing the violin; you were a part of the instrument. There was no sheet music for you to read, no look of concentration on your face. It was clear that playing the instrument came naturally to you. Eyes closed, chin tilted downwards, fingers moving smoothly and effortlessly across the strong strings. The sound of your own music had lulled you into a soft trance and the rest of the world of little importance.

Sherlock lifted himself up from his crouching position and was in front of you in six easy steps to rudely transport you back to the real world. “Four lessons.”

Your eyes snapped open. He could tell you were instantly irritated at being disrupted because you had missed a note. You refused to move your violin from your neck and had instead put a frown on your face. 

Sherlock spoke again before you had the chance to respond. “Four lessons and I will be able to play better than you.”

He could tell his cockiness had offended you but he found your offence dull and predictable. Sherlock was used to this type of response, especially from females. Lately, males just swung a drunken fist at his face. They never managed to hit him. Sherlock had stopped going to dorm parties precisely two weeks into the semester. Well, after two weeks people had stopped inviting him.

“What are you mouthing on about?” you asked, bringing Sherlock out of his own thoughts.

He had almost rolled his eyes. It was a simple request. He wanted to play the violin and had come to the best. Yes, he could have spent a few days reading up on the instrument or taken himself off to the symphony or hell; he could have even watched the universities band practice and learnt how to play. Sherlock could have taught himself, but why would he when he could convince someone like _you_ to teach him?

He decided to take a slightly different approach to stop himself from repeating his initial statement for the third time and driving himself into insanity. “What is the hardest piece to play on the violin?”

You rummaged through your bag and pulled out a bottle of apple juice. You took a refreshing sip and swished the liquid around your mouth as you considered the odd man’s question. The sweetness of the drink made your nose crinkle up. “Probably ‘The Last Rose of Summer’ by Ernst. Also my favourite piece.”

Sherlock didn’t care to know what your favourite piece was. Why did people feel the need to give away trivial facts about themselves so frequently? “So you will give me four violin lessons and by the end of the month I shall be able to play that piece without a mistake.”

The look you had given him had told him that you thought he was full of it. “And why should I give _you_ violin lessons? I don’t even bloody well know who you are.”

In fact, though he was tall and rather handsome under his dark curls and thick coat he was most likely an arrogant and ignorant first year. The only men who approached women in ways like this would be the younger ones with little experience talking to college women, or, quite frankly, people of the opposite sex. Therefore, this cocky sod was definitely preying on the wrong sort of woman.

“You’re a Psychology major.” Sherlock was sure he’d seen you hanging around the laboratories a few times, often accompanied by a girl who smothered herself in fake tan and spoke far too loudly and regularly for his liking. “Four lessons and I shall write your thesis for you.”

You snorted. “My thesis is on gender differences in social and emotional functioning,” you drawled. “It’s got to be fifteen thousand words long. Do you get where I’m going with this?”

Sherlock was just surprised you hadn’t asked how he’d known what you were studying. “Meet me Wednesday night at seven. In the conservatorium. Don’t be late.”

Your eyes bulged and before you could snap something back the man had already turned away with a heavy swish of his coat.


	2. Coffee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos! Ummmm a note, this fic is really silly and I have no idea where it came from...it's like a kind of a drabble/short story/fluff (mhm) sort of thing I wrote for fun xxx
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock Holmes, Guns n Roses nor The Chronicles of Narnia. If I did, I'd probably be God.

Is that really what the female gender had decided was in fashion this month? Sherlock never really consciously paid attention to fashion in the same sense as other people did, but he had never seen any outfit so hideous. A tiny denim skirt with a black 'Guns n Roses' t-shirt marked with a giant skull and crossbones. Thank God the eightiest were over. If only you'd keep it that way. The only redeeming thing you had on you was that you were carrying your violin case in your right hand. You left hand carried a cup of coffee (or was it tea?) and a brown leather backpack was flung carelessly across one shoulder, the flap on the back open and large books popping out the top.

You placed the cup of coffee (it was definitely coffee, Sherlock could now smell it) on a small table and opened your violin case.

"Let's get this over with."

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

"Ah, yes," you replied, fumbling with taking your violin out of the case and forgetting your manners. You turned back to look at him. "I'm - "

"[Name]," he answered for you, taking your outstretched hand in his and giving it a swift and firm shake. Before you could ask how he knew your name he tapped your flipped open violin case. 

It took you a few seconds, but then it came to you. Your name was carved in the front of the case. He must have been quick to spot it. You nodded, though it was obvious that he didn't need your affirmation. He was well aware of his accuracy.

"Well," you began hesitantly. "Take a seat."

You began slowly, running him through the strings, the different pitches, the notes and the correct grasp. Sherlock often stopped you, wording his questions so that they were more unsure statements than admitting he actually needed your advice. By the end of the hour he could already play God Save the Queen perfectly.

"I need to borrow your violin," he stated, standing at your side and watching you neatly pack it away.

You quirked an eyebrow at him. "That wasn't part of the deal."

"I need to practice."

"What if you break it?"

"I won't break it," he replied, sounding exasperated. He picked up your violin case, turning it over in his hands. "Thank you, [Name]," he said pompously with a flash of a smug smile, heading towards the conservatorium doors. "Same time next week."

The doors banged shut and you crossed your arms. What an annoying (albeit talented) man.

\--

Bored out of your mind a few days later, it was the library that you headed in hope of clearing your thoughts. Usually you would play your violin for hours until you had relieved yourself from any worries - today you were hoping that a fantasy novel would allow you some sort of escape from reality.

The first stop was the psychology section to stock up on books for your thesis. What Sherlock had proposed had been tempting, but you weren't going to risk 50% of your grade on someone who could very well flake out on you. Though he seemed exceptionally clever that didn't mean at all that he knew much about human psychology.

With two hefty books already in your arms, you wandered up the stairs to the fiction section. The little cards that stuck out with letters on them alerted you to the author you were after. You stopped at 'L' for C.S. Lewis. Yes, you were probably too old for his books now but to you they were _classics_. You stood up on your tip toes, stretching, reaching, stretching and reaching for the goddamned book that was just out of your height range. 

You were just about to retreat to find a step-stool when a hand retrieved the book from the shelf. This could be your meet cute. You'd be reading 'The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe' to your children at bedtime and the smallest would ask "how did you meet daddy?" and you'd tell them about the kind stranger that helped you get the very same book off the shelf.

You allowed your eyes to travel from the book in his hand, down his sleeved arm and all the way to his face. _The face of Sherlock Holmes._ Ok, maybe not your ideal future husband, but still. It was a nice gesture.

"Thanks," you said with a warm smile, holding your hand out waiting to receive the book. "I was just about to get a ladder or something but-"

"Oh I didn't get it for you. I want to re-read it."

Your mouth hung agape. "But- But I was - I was going to -"

"One of my favourites," he replied, ignoring your stuttering comments. 

"Yeah? Well maybe you should take these too!" you exclaimed far too loudly for a library. You pushed the two psychology books roughly into his chest. "And I hope you've already started my thesis," you said waspishly, expecting to catch him out on something he'd forgotten for once.

He gave you the swiftest of smiles that made his eyes crinkle. "Almost finished it, in fact." He turned and began walking to the check-out desk downstairs, holding up the fantasy novel that you had been dying to read. "I shouldn't take too long with this!"

The librarian looked far too puzzled to confront you on the noise.


	3. Chai Tea

Armed with your sheet music and cup of chai (you were having a break from coffee), it was at least 45 minutes into your second violin lesson with Sherlock before he spoke.

"You look hungry."

"Excuse me?"

"Dinner. Let's go."

You gulped. "I - No, I' m not..."

Sherlock ignored your feeble protest. Your violin was delicately placed in its case and your sheet music bundled up before you even could stand and get yourself together. He handed you the wad of papers and you stuffed them in your backpack, walking with him to the door.

The small Chinese restaurant looked out onto another foggy Cambridge cobbled road. The street lights did little to illuminate the surroundings and made everything all the more mysterious. After taking a seat at a rather cosy table, Sherlock handed the waiter back his menu without ordering.

You gave him a questionable look though decided not to say anything. You were starving and couldn't be arsed to pretend otherwise.

You smiled at the waiter when he approached your table again. "Can I get the Hainanese chicken with rice please?"

The waiter smiled and nodded, writing down your order in his notepad. 

"Make it a large serving, Tsui," Sherlock added.

When the waiter had disappeared out back you shot Sherlock a dangerous look. "Er? A large serving?" 

He rolled his eyes and scoffed, knowing already what you were trying to imply. "I'm not calling you fat. Far from it. I told you, you're hungry."

"How do you know that?" you argued through semi-gritted teeth. You were about to lose your patience now that he'd brought up the topic again with such smugness. Surely your stomach hadn't been THAT loud during practice?

"You didn't have lunch today."

You sighed, a small and almost senseless laugh escaping at the same time. "How do you know that?"

"Last week when you arrived you had bread crumbs on your skirt."

"I had... What?! So?"

"So today you didn't have any crumbs on your skirt."

"Maybe I washed my hands instead of wiping them on my skirt," you said smartly, but then instantly felt stupid that Sherlock had noticed that you'd wiped your hands on your skirt last week.

"You didn't wash your hands; you still have ink marks on them. Busy writing your thesis is my guess. _Stupid thing to do_ , seeing as I told you I've already finished it."

You frowned and crossed your arms. "You _really_ don't have to do that, you know."

"It was part of the _deal_ ," he replied drearily, waving his hand nonchalantly in the air to dismiss your comment.

"But don't you have your own assignments to do? What do you study?"

"Chemistry."

You were about to give him a smart-arse reply (probably something about chemistry students and his lack of chemistry with other people) but your food had arrived and you were now staring at an extremely large portion that you knew you wouldn't finish.

You pushed the plate closer to him. "Do you want some?"

"I'm not hungry."

Another sigh. "Right."

You took a few unladylike mouthfuls of food, not caring about having to impress the opposite sex that was dining with you. Besides after all that arguing Sherlock was right - you had skipped lunch today and you were starving. After washing down the initial first bites with water you decided to pick up conversation again. If he didn't want to be here, he would have left. 

"Sherlock?" His eyes flashed from the other side of the room to yours, but only momentarily. "When we first met, how did you know I was studying psychology?"

"I remember seeing you in the laboratory a few times. I knew it was something to do with science, but couldn't remember you in any classes I took. Also I saw the titles of the books in your bag."

You stopped the forkful of rice that was heading towards your mouth midway. "Ahhh. I see. You're good at observing people." Sherlock looked at you as though you were the stupidest person he'd met. You lowered your eyes, embarrassed at your obvious comment. "Well, you're _exceptionally_ good at it, I'd say," you mumbled, shoveling some more food into your mouth to stop yourself from speaking.

Now Sherlock looked at you with interest. The first time (much like this, the second time) had gone unnoticed by you. The first time he had looked at you with interest was when he had first noticed you in the courtyard that day when you were playing violin. Sherlock had thought you were quite marvelous. Oh, he knew he would be able to play better than you shortly, but that didn't mean he didn't think you were something special.

As though you had to prove that you weren't as smart as him again, you opened your mouth. "So, can you do it to anyone? Guess stuff about them?"

"I don't guess."

"Right. So? Go on then. Do your _thing._ " Sherlock opened his mouth but you quickly jumped in before he could. "DON'T observe me though. I'm too self-conscious for that," you said, a coy little smile playing on your lips because you knew Sherlock would think you were being silly.

Oh and he did. He looked at you dully and thought that women were possibly the most annoying thing since his roommate.

You picked up the conversation again. "What about her?" You tilted your head to the side, nodding towards a large lady sitting by herself in the corner of the room. 

Sherlock dragged his piercing light blue eyes away from yours and onto the lady. 

She had a fur coat on, thick rings decorating her fat fingers, all except her ring finger. _Rich and divorced._ She was in the corner of the room, could possibly be waiting for someone she shouldn't be with, but it was more likely that she came here to eat fairly priced quality Chinese food where none of her posh friends would see her. _She still had a reputation to uphold, probably hadn't told them about her divorce._ Though she was overweight, her posture was maintained to perfection. _A former ballerina, or gymnast. Former meaning over 30 years ago._ Scoffing down her food yet dabbing at her mouth with her napkin every bite. _In a rush to go somewhere nice, probably the theater._ A quick look at her handbag showed a pamphlet sticking out with a two people in leotards. _She's going to the Royal Ballet - so a former ballerina then._

He looked back at you, pleased with his quick analysis. "What do you want to know?"

You smiled, your eyes showing a spark. "Hmmm. What do you think her name is?" you asked cheekily.

If looks could kill, Sherlock would have murdered you. And gotten away with it too, the bastard.


	4. Chocolate Milkshake

“I think you’re going to win this bet. Or deal. _Whatever it is._ You’re going to be able to play the piece perfectly.”  
  
Sherlock looked up at you from the violin he held at his neck. He almost missed a note but managed to catch himself in time. “Hm. That was apparent from the beginning,” he said monotonously, sliding the bow across the strings rhythmically.  
  
You huffed. “Well I want to extend my part of the bargain then, seeing as it's too boring as it is.” Sherlock looked drearily at you but continued playing the sombre piece without a word. “Because I lent you my violin, which wasn’t originally part of the deal _if you remember correctly,_ I think that you should have to accompany me to the Lab Ball at the end of the month.”  
  
Sherlock really did miss a note this time. “I don’t accept.”  
  
“Too bad.”  
  
You reached over to the desk and picked up your chocolate milkshake, a circle of water left on the desk from where it had once sat. You played around with the straw miserably before placing it in between your puckered lips and looking at him under your eyelashes. This had zero affect on Sherlock.  
  
“I won’t come. You’ll be stood up, so you may as well get yourself another date and save yourself the misery.”  
  
You _almost_ pouted but instead narrowed your eyes, retracting from the creamy beverage and placing it back onto the table. He was right; there was a very good chance you’d get stood up by him so you should probably have asked someone who you knew would accompany you. But there was something about Sherlock that you were beginning to become accustomed to. You knew going with him to the dance would be far more entertaining than going with a guy that would constantly tell you how pretty you were or someone who talked about their grades all the time…   
  
“How about this — “  
  
Sherlock had picked up the song again. “What part of my sentence made you believe you could reason with me?”  
  
“Like you said from the beginning, if you can play ‘The Last Rose of Summer’ without any mistakes, you don’t have to go with me. _But if you make a mistake —_ “  
  
“Yes, yes, I get it,” he snapped.  
  
“So it’s agreed?”  
  
Sherlock stood and began packing up your violin and collecting all your sheet music together. The lesson had gone well and he was playing over and above someone who had been at it for years. You were unsure how much he’d been practicing but either way, he played absolutely beautifully. You had stopped telling him this a few days ago due to the fact that he had begun to correct the way you pronounced the Italian music terms during your lessons. Prat.  
  
He clicked shut the violin case and turned to you. “It is agreed. Dinner?”  
  
Tonight it was Indian food and for once Sherlock didn’t sit and watch you eat and actually ordered something. He poured you both a glass of table water and looked at you for a good long while. You never questioned him and always stared back at him with similar interest. Tonight’s subject was his older brother. Sherlock always managed to have something new to complain about regarding Mycroft and he enjoyed listening to your feebly kind attempts at an opinion about a man you’d never met.   
  
“That man over there keeps looking at you. Do you know him?”  
  
You furrowed your brows. “Where?” Sherlock flicked his sharp gaze to where the man was seated so you could take a look. You shrugged, “I don’t know who he is.”  
  
“He’s at Cambridge as well. Studies medicine. By the looks of it he spends more time on his hair than you do. You should ask him to that dance you’re so intent on going to.”  
  
“I don’t spend a lot of time on my hair,” you sulked, running a hand through your messy locks. You suddenly comprehended the second part of Sherlock’s sentence and your eyebrows shot up your forehead. “What! No. I don’t want to go with him. I want … I want to go with you.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because I like you.”  
  
“You don’t make any sense to me.”  
  
“And maybe that’s why you like me,” you shot back with a grin.   
  
Sherlock deadpanned and took a sip of water, watching you carefully. He took another look at the man sitting at the other side of the room that was clearly interested in you. He looked back at your face, eyes downcast and gloomily picking at the last bits of rice.   
  
Maybe you were correct. Maybe that WAS why he liked you.


	5. Lemonade

When Sherlock heard you play your violin that day, any concerns he had had been washed away. Now that you'd taught him to play, well, Sherlock had found a healthier way than cigarettes to clear his thoughts. Cigarettes were for outside use due to the universities _stupid_ 'no smoking in the dorms' rule, so inside was for the violin.

“I want to thank you.”

The look on your face would have confused the heck out of Sherlock. Your eyes bulged and your eyebrows rose in disbelief, yet your sappy smile and understanding tilt of your head showed how touched you were by his sentimentality. 

“It does mean a lot to me that… that you took time out of your life for me.” He had begun to elude your eyes so you sensed that this was as kind as he ever got. 

“Sherlock, it was really no big deal. It was … well I won’t say _pleasure_ , but it was an _interesting experience_.”

Sherlock gave you a sincere and knowing smile and presented you with a thick bundle of paper, dropping it into your lap. The title page read:   
_‘Thesis on gender differences in social and emotional functioning. By [First Name] [Surname]. Due Date: 30 June, 1995.’_

“I need to get back to my dorm and practice before tomorrow,” he said smartly, straightening out his jacket.

It was almost summer yet he still wore that thick trench coat on top of his loose white blouse and long pants. At least he’d ditched that thin scarf he wore (that you occasionally thought about strangling him with). You, on the other hand, had long since reverted back to summer attire, currently sporting a denim skirt and a Red Hot Chili Peppers band tee. 

“Sure,” you said with an eager nod. “Tomorrow?”

“Same time.”

\--

This was it. Everything relied on Sherlock messing up this piece. A part of you wondered if maybe he’d make a mistake on purpose just so he could go with you to the dance without admitting that he did want to go with you. Then you had to remind yourself that this was Sherlock, the last person in the world to muck up something, and definitely not on purpose. Maybe if he fancied you he’d do it – that would be rather cute, wouldn't it? Wait, no. Sherlock + being cute + Lab Ball? You had a better chance of getting him drunk and making him to go.

The most surprising thing was finding that the thesis Sherlock had given you yesterday had been the same one you had written, the only difference was that he had edited it. That’s right, he’d somehow managed to steal a copy of the thesis you had been writing and make adjustments to your wording and arguments. Not to mention he’d written out the whole thing again by hand.

“So why did you do it? Use my thesis?” you straightaway inquired when he entered the conservatorium the next day. 

His calculating gaze met yours. He wasn’t going to admit that your thesis had proven to be well written and thought-provoking. Sherlock had first graduated university at 19 years old and he was only here now at 23 to do post graduate research. He wasn’t here to admit that a 22 year old knew more about the violin _and_ human psychology than himself.

Though you had only known Sherlock a month you knew he wasn’t going to reply to your question. You would take it as a strange sort of compliment. “More importantly, how did you manage to copy my handwriting so _perfectly_?”

Sherlock was unaware that your flattery got him talking. “From the notes on the sheet music you lent me,” he replied boastfully, as if it were the most obvious thing in the word. 

You bit your lip; you’d only scribbled down a few notes on the sheet music such as ‘legato’ or ‘forte’ and things like that. And he’d done an amazing job with forging your signature at the end, that’s for sure. Perhaps a bit _too_ good. You’d have to have a look at your check book later to see if you’d made any out of the ordinary purchases. You took a sip from your glass bottle of lemonade, allowing the carbon dioxide to fizz in your mouth and wake you up.

“Well thank you very much. Your edits really made it better.”

“Of course they did.”

You gave him a look that told him to shut it. 

“Alright, let’s hear you play then.”

Before Sherlock begun playing you could feel the tension in the room. He obviously hadn’t forgotten that if he made a mistake he’d have to go to the dance with you. There was a lot riding on this bet now and it wasn’t just a game: there were silly emotions involved. Even Sherlock couldn’t pretend he didn’t know that.

He began to play 'The Last Rose of Summer' looking you dead in the eyes. As he moved on to the second part, his eyes slipped shut and you realised that he really was playing exactly like you had taught him. Not just that, but he played _exactly like you_. His fingers moved in the same way yours did, he even held the instrument exactly like you did. It was clear that he did admire something about you – the way you played the violin. If that was the only thing Sherlock Holmes ever looked up to you about then you were fine with that.

Sherlock cleared his throat to snap you out of your thoughts. You opened your eyes to see him staring at you with a smirk. He had played the piece without a mistake, leaving you with two options. 

1) You could get upset and shout at him for being an insensitive dick or  
2) You could be a reasonable adult and admit that he’d won fair and square.

There was a 3rd option that you didn’t know about. It was to act super awkward and pretend like you were fine, not at all phased, and that you didn’t want to go to the dance with him anyway.

You gave him a weak smile. “Congratulations. I knew you’d be able to do it.”

His look was scrutinising. “Did you?”

“Yeah!” you replied way too cheerfully. “Well done.”

“[Name], I – "

“Well I’ve got to get back to my dorm. You don’t need my violin anymore, do you? Now that you’re a pro?” You gave him a wobbly and fake smile. “I’ll see you around.” 

You picked up the small violin case and tried to lift you head up as you walked out of the room.


	6. Red Wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok there is one chapter left after this...... i dont even know what it is.. just fluff. why. idk. THANK YOU FOR STICKING WITH ME PEOPLE.

Why was everyone here such a bore? Or maybe it was the fact that you weren’t interested in discussing quantum physics with the skinny looking man who was staring at your chest. You had been a second away from telling him that it wasn’t the law of physics holding your breasts up, but a very good bra. Then after that you had a rather physical dance with a tall biology student that kept trying to grind your hips against his until you decided to call the whole night quits. You drained your fourth glass (in three hours) of red wine and headed out of the noisy laboratory, tripping inelegantly out into the hallway. 

Luckily a good looking man was there to steady you.

“Hey I know _you_!” you told him giddily, squinting. “You spend more time on your hair than I do.”

“Erm,” the medicine student from the Indian restaurant a week ago replied. “Do I know you?”

“You study medicine,” you whispered loudly as though it was a huge secret. 

“Ahuh,” he replied uneasily. You were clearly a Goddess at talking to men whilst tipsy. “I’m going to go inside now.”

“Do you use hairspray or gel to get your hair to stay like that?!” you yelled after him.

He shot you another confused look but ultimately ignored your comment and headed into the laboratory. 

“I should get back to my dorm,” you mused after a moment of laughter at yourself. You pushed yourself off the wall and your handbag dropped from your shoulder, the contents spilling onto the floor. “Ah shi-”

“You’re no better with men drunk than you are sober.” It was Sherlock’s deep baritone voice that interrupted your swear and made you realise that he was standing there watching you. 

You squealed his name excitedly, looking up at him from your crouched position. Then you remembered that you were angry at him; disappointed that he hadn’t accompanied you to the dance. You instantly and very unsubtly changed your expression. “What do you want?” 

He stuck both his long arms out and wrapped his fingers round your wrists, pulling you up. You stumbled on your heels again like Bambi on ice. 

“Four red wines, was it?” He could smell it on your breath. 

“I’m still angry at you.” It was only later on that you’d realise he was wearing a suit, ready (albeit ~~very late~~ a tad late) to accompany you to the dance.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

You pouted. “Why do you always have to be right?”

“I don’t see how it is any fault of mine that I happen to be right all the time.”

“Well then why do you have to be such a bloody arse about it?”

Charming. You were still charming whilst under the influence. And if Sherlock had to admit it under extreme duress, he would say you looked very attractive tonight. Somehow your makeup and hair had remained intact and the fact that you weren’t in your usual band t-shirt and flannel but a strapless black dress definitely made a difference. You weren’t fooling anyone with those shoes though. They were far too high for you to walk in. Stupid error.

Though like Sherlock, you had a similar habit of losing any chance with the opposite sex once you opened your mouth. You didn’t know it but you were good at being straightforward too. The reason you got away with it was because you were polite. Ok, you argued and told people when they were wrong as well, but you also listened to them before shutting them down. You had compassion, something Sherlock did not. Sherlock did not have time for listening to unintelligible points of view and thought that compassion was stupid. He didn’t like those characteristics on him, _but he liked them on you._

“You need water.”

“No, I don’t!” you protested, wriggling out of his grip.

“Fine.” 

Sherlock was about to turn away and leave you (because why should he have to put up with a drunk?) when his roommate stumbled out the same laboratory door. His drunk and normally stupid roommate, Danny.

“Heeeeeey man. What are you doing here?” Danny practically yelled. He then noticed you, looking quite like a rag-doll in Sherlock’s arms. “Ohhhhhh. Nice one, she’s a looker.”

Sherlock loathed Danny. “I’m not with her.” 

You were slumped over Sherlock’s forearm, hair covering you face. Your steady breathing told Sherlock that you were seconds from passing out. He tilted your head up by placing his index finger under your chin. You looked up at him through drowsy eyes. 

Danny shuffled his feet awkwardly. He took a step closer to Sherlock and cocked his head to the side. “Well, you knoooow, Sherlock… If you don’t want her… I will … you know… I wouldn’t mind a crack at her…” 

Sherlock wanted to punch him.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Sherlock replied smoothly, pulling you a bit closer to his body.

Danny gave a nervous laugh. “Sureeee. Well you take the dorm then,” he said with a careless wink. He clapped Sherlock on the shoulder and opened the laboratory door. Music blared out momentarily until the door swung shut.

Sherlock unexpectedly felt very smug. Until he realised you had actually passed out. Not that he was actually planning on doing anything with you. But as long as you were safe with him then Sherlock was happy.


	7. Turkish Delights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I APOLOGISE FOR THIS PIECE OF FLUFFY FLUFF. Story is complete. done. maybe i could be convinced to write more of sherlock in the future. idk. i dont know how to feel about this story~ swear i almost threw up writing the last line......

_Mmm_. Your bed smelt like Sherlock. Like that stupid thick trench coat he always wore and the brief pat of cologne he gave his face after shaving. You made to roll over in your double bed and instead landed on the floor. Blinking thrice, you realised you weren’t in your double bed, but someone’s single bed. The sheets were wrapped around your waist and you weren’t in the outfit you had on last night but a large shirt that barely covered your bottom. What the absolute _hell_ was going on?

Sherlock entered the room and gave you one swift look. “What are you doing on the ground?”

You swallowed, only then realising how dry your throat was and the small pounding in your head. “Oh my god, did – "

“No, you undressed yourself.”

You gave him a stupid look. “Not that, I mean… did we...?” Sherlock looked dumbfounded. “You know…” You opened your eyes wide as though that would convey what you were alluding to better. He continued staring at you. “Did we _sleep_ together?”

“Is it common for you to wake up in a man's bed without proper clothes on?”

“No. Don't be a twat,” you snapped back. You wished that you weren't wearing your goofy Batman underwear because he had probably deduced something from them. 

“Then why would you assume that we would be intimate?”

“I don’t know,” you grumbled, still aware that you were on the ground. “Maybe because I don’t have 'proper clothes on',” you repeated his prior sentence mockingly. 

“That was your own doing,” Sherlock replied. He took a step closer to his desk and sat down, chucking a bottle of water at you. 

“Thanks but I can’t really wear this,” you mumbled sarcastically. You took a sip from the bottle and it felt as though the water had absorbed into the inner sides of your throat, instantly soothing it. 

“Your dress is over there,” he told you, pointing at the opposite side of the room. Now he was writing away into a notepad with two textbooks open and a strange looking calculator.

“Can you get it for me?”

“Why?”

“Because! Why do you think!” You knew if you stood up the shirt wouldn’t cover you properly and Sherlock would be able to see your knickers, not to mention all of your bare legs (perhaps for the second time). The problem hadn’t seemed to cross Sherlock’s mind at all.

“You have legs, you get it. I’m busy.”

You choked back a scoff. “Thank GOD I didn’t sleep with you,” you snapped. You flung the white sheet off your body and stood up, marching to the other side of the room and praying your bottom wasn’t jiggling for him to see.

Sherlock only looked up when he heard the door slam and you were gone.

\--

Later that night you retreated back to your dorm after a miserable cafeteria dinner. Now that your thesis was done (two weeks early as it was only the 1st of June) you had little to do. Your friends were all busy with their assignments so your last luck at finding something to entertain yourself with was your violin. 

Except when you opened your bedroom door you found Sherlock sitting on your bed playing it.

“Can I help you?” he asked, noting your shocked face.

You made an act of looking to both your sides to make sure he was speaking to you. “Excuse me? What the hell are you doing in my dorm? How did you get _in?_ ”

“I was going to look for you but decided it would be easier to wait here instead."

You took note that he conveniently didn't answer how he got into your locked dorm room but you let it slide. _If it happened again you might not be so easy._ "What do you want?” you sighed.

Sherlock placed your violin gently down on your bed and walked towards you. He reached into his coat jacket and pulled out what looked like a gift. 

Wordlessly, he pushed it into your hands, his eyes studying you so intently that you were afraid he’d be able to see your soul. You shut your open mouth and gave him an incredulous look. 

“You can open it,” he said before you could question him.

Without a word you dragged your eyes away from his and to the gift in your hands. You ripped the wrapping paper off (it wasn’t so much wrapping paper as his old CHEM151 notes stuck together with sticky tape) and turned the hardback book over to the front to read the title.

**The Lion, the witch and the wardrobe, by C.S. Lewis.**

A blissful grin took over your face, reaching your eyes and preventing you from speaking. You stretched (ok, practically threw yourself) up to wrap your arms around Sherlock’s neck. You squeezed him until you heard him faux cough uncomfortably and take a step back.

His hands were on your shoulders and he gave them a quick squeeze. “Glad you like it,” he expressed with a sincere smile. 

“Thank you so much, you’re the BEST Sherlock!” you gushed. 

He walked towards your desk and picked up his satchel. “Can I borrow this?” He held up your bedside table lamp that he must have unplugged earlier. “Thank you, [Name],” he cut in hastily before you could answer. 

He left your room with the lamp and his usual sweet smile that made you want to punch him because it meant that he had got what he had wanted. _As always._

You sighed, shaking your head. You placed the new book on your bedside table; you’d start reading it later tonight. Before flopping down on your bed you picked up your violin and went to place it back in its case. You didn’t need to play it to clear your thoughts. Right now you were perfectly happy with thoughts of Sherlock swamping your mind. 

Popping the black violin case open, you saw a single red rose inside.

The first rose of summer.

\--


End file.
